


This Fall Won't Kill

by ShittyEradicatedSoul



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Confusion, Detectives, Feelings, M/M, Murder Mystery, Sexual Confusion, Sherlock Holmes on a Case, Short, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:33:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23087071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShittyEradicatedSoul/pseuds/ShittyEradicatedSoul
Summary: Old/unfinished fan fiction I wrote when I was neck deep in the Sherlock Holmes fandom. They are on a case. Sherlock and John have some unsaid feelings. They're awkward. That it. That's all (*´﹀`*)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 9





	This Fall Won't Kill

"Look at her nails, John. Uneven and full of layers, a telltale sign of a habit nail biter. So what does that say?"   
John only shrugs, giving Sherlock a rested expression of 'I have no idea, but I know you do, so explain'. If he had the mind that Sherlock did, John could imagine their adventures going on for days without rest. The both of them drowned with the adrenaline to do more, get another case, and solve it. Forbid that they'd ever be bored, or all hell would break loose and poor Ms. Hudson would lose her mind.   
No. John wasn't going to complain about being slow and behind Sherlock's racing mind of high intellect. He was fine being the Doctor, the friend, a partner, the blogger. It was all fine. That is, until it all goes to the young Holmes head. His ego was almost as high as his intellect but twice as annoying. Hypocritically, while John full heartedly believes this statement, he is often at fault and will in fact feed Sherlock's ego.   
"The facts are right under our noses." Sherlock sighs to John's lack of response. "Drew has bitten her nails off so far and close to the skin that the exposed skin bled and is soar. The wounds on her fingers from said biting have just started the healing process around her time of death. So, that means that the skin is still tender, and the wounds soft. John, what do you try to grab if you're being suffocated by a plastic bag, unable to reach your attacker?"  
John hesitated before looking over the scene and crossing his arms, giving Sherlock one last look he answered gazing at the crime scene. Drew Jaklings body was sprawled halfway off the bed, a plastic bag still by her face, and her arms twisted in weird ways at her sides. The answer was now obvious, but the point Sherlock was trying to make was still in the dark to John. "The plastic bag." He said. "But there wouldn't be any sign of struggles on the bag because of the type of plastic. There was no stretching or holes."  
Sherlock huffed, "Exactly. But what evidence would be left behind if there was a struggle?" The taller gentle man didn't wait for the answer, instead pointing at the plastic he looked at earlier. John remained silent and patient as Sherlock answered, "Blood. There is no trace of blood. Absolutely nothing. Her fingers look so raw that there is no way the plastic would have remained completely transparent in a real struggle."  
John gave a small smirk in admiration that was intensely mixed with confusion. John shifted to his other foot and gave a nod in comprehension, "Right. So she didn't struggle. What does that mean?"  
"We'll we are so sure that her death was caused by asphyxiation, and I almost don't doubt that. Perhaps she was drugged. Only precise answers will be given to this after the lab. Tea?" Sherlock was walking away from the scene, rubbing his hands together on his way out before wrapping his scarf securely around his neck.   
John followed out after him in careful long strides to meet up with Sherlock's pace out the house.   
"There is definitely traces of something in her system. It's so minute, one could easily over look it, and yet it's so deadly. The killers had a way to get it into her system."  
"I'm sorry." John interrupted, given a disdainful look from Sherlock he continued, "How do you know that there was more than one killer?"  
"Timing." Sherlock replied simply. "The amount of time from surveillances to eyewitnesses, and the amount of time to her death. If it is the drug that prevented her to struggle for her life, which I am now practically certain of, then there must be a length of time at which the drug was consumed or injected. The killers were careful, but not quiet enough. They were in such a rush to get her home, do what they needed to do and after they killed her they showed every sign of a thoughtless clean up. Everything in the house was absolutely out of pace, and you could tell it was recently too. The way certain furniture had lighter and dark tones do to the sun beams in the room, or how there was only certain things cleaned from dust. There were objects that didn't fit in the places at which they were left at after her murder, meaning that something happened in the house. I imagine it has something to do with this paralysitic drug. They were looking for something, and their clean up sold them away."  
"So the killers worked together to clean up the house in the fifteen minutes after the murder before her body was found. And because of how many objects we're just out of commonplace you know for certain there was an accomplice to the murder."  
"Yes. It also has a lot to do with the patterns at which the objects were placed and how they were angled that made me acutely suspicious of this. But look at these components." Sherlock paused, his eyes glued to his microscope. There was often deafening silence when it came down to Sherlock examining the evidence. It was often followed by a cheer or frustrated groan, sometimes even a rant appointed to no one specifically just to express his train of thought aloud.   
John looked through some photos taken of the crime scene that where handed to him by a rookie investigator, who was overly enthusiastic to help out. Though they normally never took photos, John accepted it with a small 'Thanks'. He couldn't really find a reason to need them, other than to browse through them in Sherlock's long silence. Molly would join them in moments like this, but she appeared to be busy with a body of her own tonight.   
John lifted the tea cup to his mouth, his cobalt eyes scanning the objects in every photo. It was definitely hard to make it out, but Sherlock was right, of course. There was on odd stirring looks in the settings of the home. For instance, Drew had two dressers full of pictures and both look like they had been rearranged. One desk had them angled in odd ways, and the other hand them in rows organized by size. Looking at it now, it was strikingly obvious! One of the murderers had OCD, which would explain the pictures and the use of the plastic bag as well. This kind of pattern repeated all over the house, things out of place but organized differently. It all became obvious. Leave to Sherlock to get to the punch first.   
"Succinylcholine."  
"What?" John asked, unsure he had heard his companion correctly he looked up at Sherlock who was now leaning away from his microscope.   
"Succinylcholine." He repeated. "It's a drug-"  
"Hey! I know what that is." John stated, not wanting to hear the useless definition.   
Sherlock smirked, "Of course you do, doctor. So then I guess this is starting to make sense to you as well."  
The way Sherlock let the word 'doctor' role off his tongue in a purr should have been illegal. His baritone voice left goosebumps on John's skin, his heart irrationally picking up speed. The reaction was so sudden and strong, almost like a reflex it left John feeling rigid and detached from his normally neutral state. John cleared his throat, letting his tongue skate over his lips he shifted his position and nodded. "Uh, it's a parasitic. We use it when doing surgeries, actually quite nearly impossible to find traces of-"  
"Metabolites." Sherlock stated simply.   
"Right." John half muttered as if just remembering that fact and allowing this to change what was washed over him only moments before.   
"So they suffocated her with plastic, either to deter us from thinking of ever finding the drug or to speed up the process, also for the fact that I think one of our killers with OCD isn't a fan of germs. Say, how did Drew's body become found?" Sherlock considered, lifting his tea to his lips, he watched John from under his lashes with his head tilted down a bit because of the full cup.   
"A sister from out of town had prearranged a visit with Drew, said that she found it strange when the phone wasn't being answered by the second time. So she left a voicemail stating that she would be right over, and about fifteen minutes later she arrived finding Drew dead."  
"Mm. The drug is fairly quick to get to the point." Sherlock thought aloud.   
It was the case of the Drugged Asphyxiation that caused John to realize a lot about Sherlock he had never considered much before. Maybe it was the way Sherlock was acting, or maybe John's mind was over tired with the nightmares of his past getting worse. Sleep deprivation does allow some emotions to come off strongly, or caused John to over think things. He wasn't entirely sure he was over thinking Sherlock, he was almost sure he wasn't. Sherlock wasn't much for physical contact unless it was necessary, like to solve a case. Last John checked he had nothing to do with the Drugged Asphyxiation except solve it. Yet throughout the whole case John received brushes, and close proximity in the most casual moments.  
John often found himself looking over his shoulder to see Sherlock watching him doing his business. Sherlock would rest his hand on John's shoulder, and if John allowed Sherlock to linger long enough Sherlock would rest his chin on John's shoulder. It was never quiet in moments like those, where Sherlock wasn't running around and was actually glued in spot. While John felt himself blushing and trying his hardest to stay focused on whatever it was he was doing, Sherlock commented on this and that or grumbled about how bored he was. As if that could excuse his behavior. He was never one to lean in and on so close, and now each touch felt like fire, feeding Johns soul.   
The closest John had ever seen someone get to Sherlock even slightly intimately was Irene Adler. Irene Adler, who in the end turned out to be a lesbian only captivated by Sherlock's cunning ability to be observant and intelligent. Sherlock seemed to be the only exception to her sexuality, and had led to many intimate moments between the two. John wanted to support Sherlock in any act with another companion, but seeing Sherlock with someone else made him unwittingly concerned and unsure. Especially someone as erratic in her workings as Irene Adler.   
Irene had played with Sherlock, and made the mistake of falling in love with a man who couldn't really love back. She doesn't talk to John, which is fine, but he knows for damn sure now that she is alive. John heard the notification sound from Sherlock's phone and the lanky man had the audacity to pretend like such sound hadn't taken place. That was when John figured Sherlock had a thing for her and told him to go get her. That was when John found out that she was a lesbian and often sent friendly texts to keep in touch. Sherlock explained as much with a confirming tone, his eyes searching John as he took in the information.   
He wasn't just searching but observing and it frustrated John to no end. He didn't mind being observed per say, on normal day's Sherlock would make a quick remark on what he was observing. Like if he slept on the sofa last night, or noticed that John wasn't able to sleep, or which part of London he took a stroll down on a date. The way Sherlock was observing him after explaining Irene Adler was far more reserved and cautious. No pair of eyes could make John want to shift and squirm the way Sherlock's stormy blue ones did.   
Their relationship was shifting, and John felt the air about them go a bit stiff. Sherlock becoming bold in his moves and John was left not knowing what to do. They are friends, through better or worse, so whatever Sherlock was doing was probably for an experiment and nothing more. As confusing as it was, that was the only conclusion John could come to and feel a bit at peace about. Until the morning after the drug bust Sherlock and John had coordinated, catching the killers of the Drugged Asphyxiation.   
John woke an hour after Sherlock, heading into the sitting room he grabbed his laptop and a cup of coffee. Sherlock was fiddling with some experiment at the cluttered kitchen table, too involved to give John much acknowledgment as the older man walked by. Wasn't unusual at all. So John took a seat in his chair, opened up his blog and began to type all about their latest case. Not even fifteen minutes in he felt a shuffle by his shoulder and glanced up to see a stoned staring face at the screen. Sherlock's expression morphed into slight confusion at whatever line he managed to read before John slammed the laptop close.   
John was writing every detail, not that he was going to upload it all, of course he would revise and take out what he didn't want the public to know. But John did want to write his thoughts out on the complications of his most recent adventure with Sherlock first, now invaded by Sherlock himself. John groaned, leaning slightly away from Sherlock to give him a look. "Something I could help you with?"  
"No." Sherlock said quickly, then he paused letting his eyes rest on John's. "Actually, " he reconsidered out loud, "could you possibly explain to me why your blog of our cases are titled outrageously?"  
That was not what John was expecting Sherlock to say. What was he expecting?   
Sherlock continued in a huff, "The Drugged Asphyxiation? Oh, and what was that line I was reading?"  
John's throat went dry, causing his tongue to feel glued to the roof of his mouth. He averted his gaze to his laptop before fully looking at his lap, "What exactly did you read?"  
"Oh, something, something, Sherlock's intense observation makes me feel squirmish and lost, especially when it is fixed on me and left unspoken, something, something." Sherlock was heading back into the kitchen now, and then he continued. "Actually I was over your shoulder for quite some time and found another part of your blog intriguing."  
John felt his face heat up as embarrassment settled into his stomach. Why he hadn't noticed Sherlocks presence earlier is beyond him, and he regrets not being more cautious. Sherlock was going to pin him with this and hold him down until he was satisfied. "What?" John crooked.   
Sherlock hummed, "If I remember correctly, 'If I, John Watson, allow these odd feelings to overrule me, I fear my relationship with Sherlock will become far too complicated.'" The words were perfectly mesmerized, echoing in John's ear the more he let it sink in on how much he regretted writing any of it at all. Sherlock continued, now walking around Johns chair to take a seat in his own, "Do I make you feel things, John Watson?"  
John couldn't answer. Wouldn't. There was no way that he was having this conversation with Sherlock. How did Sherlock even expect him to answer? Yes, Sherlock pissed him off. Yes, Sherlock made him feel happy and lost in the moment when on a case. Sherlock could just as easily make him feel like an idiot. But was there more? Was there more to consider?   
Sherlock seemed too bold, John figured he'd try to knock him down a bit. "Am I making you feel things, Sherlock?"  
John gave him a hard stare, arms crossed over his chest as he waited with his piercing blue eyes never giving way. Sherlock hesitated, opening his mouth then closing it again, John could see a thin finger twitch in the silence on the arm rest. John could feel his heart flutter obnoxiously in his chest, he cleared his throat in an attempt to push it away. The longer he stared at Sherlock he realised his heart was pounding a beat that sung in his ears. Sherlock wasn't denying it. Leave it to this man to quickly object to something foolish, and this on a normal occasion wouldn't have been any different.   
"You," Sherlock started before pausing, "intrigue me."  
"Sorry, what?" John scrunched into confusion, "I intrigue you!? How?"  
"You didn't answer my question."  
"You didn't answer mine, either."  
Sherlock sighed, pulling out the violin he sat there plucking the strings at random. "Do I, Sherlock Holmes, make you, John Watson, feel something?"  
Sherlock's eyes were studying his violin as he pulled at the strings gently, emitting sharp sounds. John didn't think it was fair that he would have to answer this. Sherlock was the one who started it in the first place, making complicated situations pinned in the older males mind. John definitely wasn't over thinking the situation. Sherlock was absolutely intending this.   
"Yes, Sherlock, yes. You piss me off at times, actually more often than not." Sherlock snapped his head upwards to give John a look as he continued. "You make me feel alive, and I could bask in your brilliance. You've made me happy and I've laughed, and you've taken part in dangerous activities that make me nervous for your well being. Of course I feel things when it comes down to you. What I don't understand is the feelings you're mustering up in me now."  
John couldn't look at Sherlock anymore, the fire dying down a bit as he thought more about the topic. "I mean, you've been a bit different lately. Closer... warm, maybe. I'm confused about a man so married to his work yet he let's his eyes linger on me in more than ways than one. It-"  
"Makes you feel warm? Your heart pounds and you feel that you can hear it in your ears. I make you feel weak and unsure because of my proximity and bold and sudden affection. I read what you wrote John. Your posture changes and pupils dilate everytime you see me in the room. I wonder how your pulse would feel under my touch. Would it be much different from the Womans?"  
John clenched his jaw, eyes narrowed in on the wall next to Sherlock's head. He didn't not quite enjoy the fact that Ms. Adler had been brought even slightly to the equation. "Yeah, well, why do this? What does this grant you Sherlock?"  
He felt anger fuel him to the brim, like a kettle on the stove he was going to blow. Like the woman? Is that what this is? A game, a way to play with a foolish man's heart? Confuse him? It was cruel, and John felt the urge to slap his friend. Poor Molly Hooper is undeniably in love with him and he has made her upset so many times, granted unintentionally and unbeknownst to him, it doesn't dismiss the fact that he's cruel. What of now? He's so aware of what he is doing.   
"I'm trying to tell you that I have found myself in a peculiar position here, John. I don't contemplate the possibility of holding a relationship with anyone, yet you defy my trained mind and I..." Sherlock stopped plucking the strings on his Violin, he cleared his throat to give John a quick glance before looking away like how someone would flinch after being splashed with hot tea. "I'm weak to you, John. You're my weakness, and in fact, if anything ever happened to you I'm not sure what I would do. This new profound affection has been in me since the first day we met, and I'm afraid that it can't go on unsaid any longer."  
John gawked, his mouth clamped shut in fear of trying to speak and not making any sense. Sherlock Holmes feeling affection on it's own was a whole new surprise. Sherlock Holmes connecting that back to John Watson was one million problems wrapped in that one realization. One being that John was his admittedly weakness, a liability to his downfall. Not only that, but this out their relationship on some questionable lines. He had always dated lovely women, and Sherlock could not be the exception.   
He looked over Sherlock who was looking back with equal intensity. His heart wouldn't stop and he really wish it would. Now John can imagine how feelings truly get in the way of things, and he never had that problem before; he could always function with a woman in mind, but he was afraid Sherlock would steal his breath away.


End file.
